A Different Kind of Illness
by jilyjackson
Summary: Grave Mercy, Chapter 20. After Ismae has been introduced to the Breton court, she retreats to her room. Yet, d'Albret and a ghost from her past haunts her dreams, and leads to surprising consequences with Gavriel Duval. What happens in Gavriel's point of view?


**A/N: Duval's point of view for Ismae's bad dream. **

**Rating: T (French swearing)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own ****_His Fair Assassin _****series or any of the dialogue aside from Duval's black oaths used in this passage.**

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><p><span>A Different Kind of Illness<span>

I STAND BEFORE her door, leaning against the wall.

The door seems to taunt me, impossibly daring in its simplicity. It will not be wise to linger tonight- the sight of her in the dusk-coloured gown is still fresh in my mind- and yet, I cannot think of doing any other thing. To fail to come will be to admit my defeat, and though my mind is already in defeat, she does not need to know that. I pray nightly to the old saints that she does not already know how much my feelings have swayed.

In the end, there is no question. I take a deep breath and ease open her door. It hardly makes a sound, just a tiny hairsbreadth of a whisper, and yet I see her stiffen and reach under her pillow for the sharp, deadly stiletto that lays there.

"I thought we had gotten past that," I say, my voice the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Though I say the words, I am not so foolish to think that we have gotten past the issue. Ismae Rienne is as unlikely to trust me as I am unlikely to offer Anne to d'Albret. My lip curls a bit. Her naivety is startling, especially considering that she has spent a good part of her life training for this. The notion that the convent so woefully underprepares their assassins is fact of one less tool at Anne's disposal.

Ismae lifts her head from her pillow. Her eyes glitter in the darkness, and she still clutches the knife. "Perhaps you have, but I have not."

I heave a sigh. "Do not be tiresome." Even as I say the words, I nearly laugh. Since the very moment I met her, she has done nothing but continue to be tiresome. I shake my head, making my way to a chair by the window. Ismae's face is somewhat illuminated in the cast of the dying fire. A few of the embers spark up, and die in the cold air, dwindling back down to the blackened coals as naught but ash. Still, I see her dark eyes staring back at me, narrowed ever-so-slightly. It is a constant reminder that we have made no bridges between the two of us- we are just as we started.

Or, at least, Ismae is right back where we started. I am not.

Ismae yawns, stifling it with her long slender fingers on her mouth. "What are you doing here?" Her voice is tired, as if she wishes nothing more for me to return to my rooms and leave her alone. A smile twitches at the corner of my lips. Some things will never change.

I look down at my scarred hands. "Performing my nightly duties to my young mistress." My voice, too, is tired. Being at court is no small task, and I feel the fatigue closing in on me. I run a hand through my hair distractedly. I do not have the energy to play these games with Ismae. Not with my feelings as they are.

"I am too tired to spar tonight, my lord." In the crackle and snap of the nearly blackened fire, I see that she is glaring at me faintly, her arms crossed over her chest. She wants me to leave, and yet I stay where I am.

"As am I. Go to sleep. I will sit here but an hour or two, then leave." Sometimes the simplest answers are the best. I cannot stay long in this room, not with the image of Ismae earlier that night. I have done many foolish things in my lifetime, but staying here for hours would be near the very top of the list.

She yawns, this time making no attempt to stifle it. "So very long as that?"

A wry smile edges its way onto my face at her sarcasm. "I do have my reputation to protect." This is not strictly true. I have a distinct feeling that my reputation is already in shambles due to Ismae's presence. The men and ladies at court think me a besotted fool, carting around a young, lovely maid with a wicked smile and laugh such as Ismae, especially in dark times as these. The worst thing is, I fear that they are right.

Ismae yawns again, and then pinches her thin arm, her eyes snapping open. "Why did your father promise your sister to Count d'Albret? With her kingdom as dowry, surely she could have made a better match then that? To someone who wasn't so repulsive."

There is a thick, heavy silence. I think back to when my father promised Anne to d'Albret. I remember the look of defeat on his face. My father had the well-being of his country, or the well-being of his daughter at stake, and he chose the first. It is what a smart leader to a country would do, but also what a poor father would do. By promising Anne to d'Albret, he sentenced his daughter to death should she marry him. Six wives are not favorable odds.

"It was a desperate bid to save our kingdom," I finally say. "Our lord father was short on troops with which to fight the French. D'Albret promised to supply those troops, but at a price." And what a very high price it was.

"The duchess's hand in marriage," Ismae finishes, her words coming out in no more than a whisper.

"Yes," I say, running a hand through my hair. "My sister's hand in marriage." _As well as her death sentence, should the wedding come through. _My eyes darken at the thought. "Perhaps my father thought he would live long enough to ensure that the marriage never came to pass." This is something that I like to think. I cannot turn to the alternative- that my father truly was a man of politics and warfare, nothing more. I know that I, too, have earned the traits of a stoic man of numbers and strategies, but I have also inherited a little of my mother's sentimentality. It is both of these traits combined with Ismae that make such a deadly combination. I sigh. "I would like to believe that."

"I am sure that you are right, my lord," Ismae says quietly. Her words heed little comfort.

I look towards the dying fire. "I have sworn that no matter how much d'Albret bellows or what he threatens, he will have to step over my dead body to marry her." I do not say these words with any falsity. The only time that I will see Anne married to d'Albret is when I am too far away to help her- and the only circumstance where that would be the case is in the grave.

"Now," I say, my tone more matter-of-fact. "Enough questions, Ismae, or I will have to think of some way to silence you." In the faint glow from the fireplace, I see the color in her face drain to chalk. I think of the previous night, and the game of seduction that I tried to play with such a naïve innocent. The humor in my voice is a dark one. I cannot truly play with _that _kind of silencing. Whatever lies between us- be it hatred on Ismae's behalf, and something more than friendship on mine- cannot be tested with the game of which I am thinking.

Ismae crawls under the covers, turning her back to me. I see her fingers close around her knife, almost as a child cuddles a toy at night. My lips twitch. She closes her eyes, though I know that she is not asleep. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her breathing uneven. And so I sit there, watching her pretend to sleep.

I lay back in the chair, swearing softly under my breath. I think back to the day that the reverend mother at the convent of St. Mortain banished us unto each other. I remember the look of stark and utter disgust on Ismae's face, and the one on my own face that most likely mirrored hers. It is not all that long ago- just a score of days- and yet, were I to do it all again, I know that my reaction would be much different. I cannot say the same for Ismae.

My heart thuds in my chest. I do not know if it is a part of the reverend mother's orders, what Ismae is doing to me. I do not know if it is simply her own intent to make me fall for her, whilst stirring up old family troubles. I do not know what sort of game she is playing- if she wants to copy my own original strategy. Initially, I had intended to make Ismae fall in love with me, not the other way around. I do not know how I had failed so miserably.

I think back to earlier that night, at court. I think of when I was conversing to my steward, and I made the drastic mistake of looking up. I remember my heart leaping into my throat at the sight of her, and cursing myself for allowing her to have a gown-fitting. It would have been much, _much _easier if she had simply showed up in a burlap sack. Yet, when I think of her dark brown eyes looking back at me, and the laughing, playful smile at her lips, my heart leaps into my throat all over again.

I stand, swearing. I lean against the mantle of the fireplace. It is a dangerous game that we are both playing, and I fear that I am losing. For while not more than a few days ago, I told her that I was not besotted with her, I am not sure if I could say the same now. Certainly, I am not gone so far as smitten, but there is no longer an icy barrier of hatred that lies between us.

The fire has completely died by now, the blackened coals still in the fireplace. I sit back down in my customary chair, looking up at the ceiling. "You fool," I say to myself. "_Putain imbécile._" Swearing dark curses seem to do little to the situation at hand, but they do ease a bit of the tension from my shoulders.

There is a long silence in the room. It is just me, the dead fire, and the now fast-asleep Ismae. When she is asleep, there is a kind of vulnerability to her that is not there when she is awake. The planes of her face are relaxed, and I am struck by how _young _she is. She cannot be more than seventeen, and yet, I have a feeling that she has undergone more scars and trials than most people have by the age of thirty. Distantly, I wonder if this is what she looked like, before she came to the convent. I wonder what propelled her to come to the convent at all. An assassin's path is never an easy one, and there must be some dark secret in her past that she is not telling me.

While Ismae has been sent her to learn all of my darkest, deepest secrets, and I have a feeling that she will succeed, I will not learn any of hers. Ismae has more than a few secrets, locked away inside. While I am usually a good negotiator, and can coax many a secret out of most anyone, I am not sure if I can do the same with Ismae.

I have always known that I am a very shrewd person. As I get to know Ismae more and more, I am increasingly certain that there is some secret that is haunting her. I haven't the faintest idea what it is, and I'm not entirely sure that I want to know. All I am entirely certain of is that Ismae is hiding something, locked deep away within her, and it is the reason that she went to the convent.

Just then, a sharp sound pierces the sound of the room. My head snaps up. Again, there is the sound, and my hands clench on the arms of the chair. With something of a startle, I realize that the sound is coming from Ismae. She is twitching in her sleep, a look of paralyzed fear on her face. A whimper comes from her, small and terrifying. It strikes a chord in me, and a tear leaks down her face. That is when the first scream comes.

It is small, and not at all loud. It is tiny, just a small shriek more than anything else. Yet, before I realize what I am doing, I am out of my chair, crossing over to the other side of the room, to where Ismae is, crying softly in her sleep. For a moment, I stand there, unsure of what to do. Do I leave her be? As soon as the suggestion comes to me, I wave it aside. That's not an option for me, and I know it.

I lean down. She is truly crying, now, and it is a sight that unsettles me more than it should. Emboldened by the thought that I should not be bothered by her crying- _cannot _be bothered by her crying- my hands hover above her shoulders. I am just about to shake them when she whispers something in her sleep.

"_Guillo,_" she says, and it is a true spasm of fear that crosses over her features. I freeze for a moment, and then, not knowing why my urgency is doubled. My hands land on her shoulders, and I shake gently.

Ismae bolts upright, and for a moment, I realize that I forgot the knife in her hand. I dodge out of the way just in time, as the knife cuts a scratch on my collarbone. I swear a black oath. "_Putain merde sainte!" _

Ismae's eyes fly open, her wide brown irises meeting mine. "God's Teeth!" I say. "I was only trying to wake you. You were crying out in your sleep." I glare at her venomously.

"I was not," she says, her voice trembling slightly. Her eyes dart from her dagger to my neck, and widen a bit as they take in the blood already seeping down my starchy white shirt.

"When I tried to wake you, you stabbed me," I say sorely, wrinkling my nose at her. That will teach me to try and wake her when she is sleeping; that is fair enough. It is just not an ideal lesson that I would like to learn.

Her eyes widen. "_Merde_." She drops the knife that she is holding for the first time since I entered the room. Ismae pushes away the covers, leaping out of bed. I lean backwards, trying to stop the blood from staining the covers. Unfortunately, I am afraid that a few drips land on one of the sheets, but before I can be sure, Ismae has returned with a wet linen cloth. "Let me see how bad it is," she says frantically, a hint of worry in her voice.

"Not serious, I think," I say, still put out. I raise my chin to let her access the scratch easier. "But you have ruined one of my favourite shirts." I scowl at her. In truth, it _is _one of my favourite shirts, and it is now stained with blood. Somehow, I doubt that the fancy nobles of the Breton court will appreciate blood-stained clothing.

She wipes the wound gently. "Then perhaps you shouldn't sneak up on people when they are sleeping." I almost gape at the unfairness of her statement. I was only trying to _help _her. _Mon Dieu. _

"You were whimpering and crying," I point out. "You'd rather I left you to the tender mercies of your dream?" I think back to the word that she whispered. _Guillo. _It's a name- a male name. That alone is enough to bring up an inkling of just what her dream was about.

Ismae's cheeks redden. "Perhaps not." She continues to wipe, and I feel the trickle of blood slow. She frowns at the scratch. "I must resume practicing," she murmurs. "I missed." She looks more upset by the fact that she missed than by the fact that she stabbed me.

I laugh. "Only because I have very good reflexes and you were asleep." There is silence, and I become very aware that Ismae is very close. She gently mops the scratch, and each touch stirs something. Her hand stills near my collarbone, and my heartbeat speeds up, just a bit. Our knees touch, and I stare at her carefully.

Ismae retracts. She folds the towel into a small square. My heart is still racing from where her hand rested at the base of my throat, and I resist the urge to swear a black oath. It is a dangerous game that we are both playing, and I cannot help but feel it will not end well.

"Do you care to share your dream?" I say finally. My voice is low and quiet, and I pray to hear her confession as much as to be left in the dark. I am not sure if I want to know what her dream is about, and like as not, I can draw my own conclusions from _Guillo. _

"It was nothing," Ismae says, looking down at her hands. "I have already forgotten it." It is a blatant lie, and we both know it. A tear still runs down her face, slowly drying on her cheek.

"_Liar._" The word falls so quietly from my lips that for a moment, I am not sure that she has heard it. She jumps a bit, though, keeping her eyes trained on the cloth. I am not sure what is on the linen that fascinates her so, but I do not push the issue.

There is a silence, and then I speak. "I can tend to it from here, I think." I take the linen cloth from her, standing up. I want to run my hands through my hair and swear violently, but I am not sure that it would fix the mess that we are both in. Not now. It is too far along to help for that.

Ismae wraps her arms around herself. "I am sorry, my lord. I did not wish to harm you." Her dark eyes look up at me, and I am startled to see that there is truth in them, as well as remorse. So she really _is _sorry. It is something that shocks me.

I flash a smile at her quickly. "When one consorts with assassins, one must expect to dance along the edge of a knife once or twice. I bid you goodnight." I smile at her one last time, though as soon as I turn my back, the smile fades from my lips completely. I hear the creak of the bed as Ismae settles back down.

I slip out of the room. It is dark in the hallways of my home, and I slide against the wall. The cold stone grits against my back through my already ruined shirt, and I sink to the floor, putting my head in my hands. _Guillo. _An unwelcome suspicion comes to me, and I hold my breath, wishing that it would just disappear completely.

It does not.

I think back to when I barged into the reverend mother's office at the convent of St. Mortain. I leaned forward, my proximity close. She had paled, her face draining to the colour of double-burnt ashes. I had tried to help her into the boat, and she had recoiled from me, and not slightly. It had been violent. I thought to the times that I had helped her down from her horse, or rubbed warmth back in her arms. I thought to the first night that I sat in her chambers. I had teased her with my mocking voice, and had grabbed onto her ankle. She had paled and flinched, and I had thought it was because she was so very naïve and innocent.

Now, I am wondering if I was sorely mistaken. Guillo. It is a man's name. I think back to the fight that we had, in the midst of Guérande, when the seven men were set upon us. She did not look nearly as afraid as she did when she was in her dream. It is an unwelcome suspicion that comes to me, and while I want to push it away, it is there all the same.

What if Ismae was not afraid because she was innocent and naïve?

What if she was afraid because she was _not _innocent and naïve?

The complications of this set into my brain. Ismae might have laid with a man, long ago, and it might be the secret that she works so hard to dispel. It might be the secret that sent her to the convent. I do not know all of the complications to this. I do not know all of what happened. I do not even know who Guillo is. For all I know, it could be her brother.

Yet, though I am certain of very little, I do know this. Whoever Guillo is, Ismae is terrified of him. And, from what I know of the stubborn, impatient Ismae, she is afraid of very little. It is in that moment that I promise myself something.

Whatever happens between us, I will never again threaten her with seduction. I will never again taunt or tease her with the notion of a man's touch. Only if she agrees to it beforehand, and somehow, I do not think that will happen. I will never again touch her in that way. Tonight, I got a glimpse of a different Ismae than the one that I know. It was a broken Ismae, shattered and tattered inside. It is not an Ismae that I wish to see again.

I feel sick to my stomach. It is not the kind of illness that I am accustomed to, however. It is not the sort of illness that Isabeau has. It is not the kind of sickness that drove us out of Nantes and to Guérande.

It is an entirely different illness.


End file.
